


kinetic energy

by guineaDogs, rachhell



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Craig has a PhD in being a dick, M/M, POV Multiple, RP format, Stan tries way too hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: Craig Tucker, PhD, wanted a teaching assistant to ease the burden of his busy life. He got more than what he bargained for in the worst ways.  [Staig]





	kinetic energy

This wasn't the glamorous life that, at ten years old, Craig imagined for himself. Though what he'd daydreamed about wasn't _glamor_ so much as drinking recycled piss and eating dehydrated food at zero gravity. Any aspirations for actual space exploration died the moment he was just a fraction taller than NASA's requirements.   
  
But it was whatever. So he didn't make it to space for some bullshit reason. His grounded, terrestrial-bound life didn't _suck_ or anything. Far from it: maybe he wasn't in space, but he helped design and construct the equipment that made it up there. And if _that_ wasn't fucking cool, then honestly whoever disagreed with him was flat-out wrong.   
  
It wasn't the only way he occupied his time, though, which contributed to his near-constant exhaustion. Adulthood was rough, but adulthood while being strapped down with more student loan debt than he ever wanted to think about, while being a field that was incredibly competitive meant having a side-gig.   
  
Adjunct teaching wasn't the best side-gig, not in the grand scheme of things, as it was a lot of thankless, unrewarded work given the amount of grading and lesson planning he did in his spare time, but at some point it occurred to Craig that he must've hated himself.

Departmental shortages this semester meant he was slated with more courses than he would've liked, but he could put the money to use, and at least this semester, he could dump all the busy work onto someone else.   
  
Someone named Stanley Marsh, according to the email he'd received from the department head. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Craig wasn't sure if it was because he actually knew his new teaching assistant, or if he just had one of those _names._ It wasn't something he put a lot of thought into; ultimately it was just a passing thought as he glanced at the ticking clock hanging on the wall opposite of him.   
  
Any minute now, the grad student was slated to meet with him. There was no point in trying to do anything even remotely productive right now, so all he could do was wait.

It was part and parcel of being a graduate student to be stressed and sleep-deprived, but Stan was just _stuck_ on the bags under his eyes. The guy he'd be teaching under, or teaching-assisting-under or _something_ like that, some dude named Craig Tucker -- Stan looked into him, read his thesis on asteroid deflection strategies and all, which wasn't quite Stan's field, but fascinating enough, but _hadn't_ read any of his published stuff, and maybe he _should've_ before he met the guy, shouldn't he have? -- surely understood the struggle.  It wasn't like Craig was _old_ or anything (although, with a name like _Craig,_ Stan had half expected said thesis to be written in 1978, rather than 2007, so maybe he'd simply received his degrees later in life?). He'd experienced it. He'd been there.   
  
But, Stan couldn't stop examining the mirror at how utterly, devastatingly _tired_ his face looked, and if he kept it up, he was going to be late. He had time between his morning shift at the hardware store and his meeting with Craig Tucker (Doctor? Professor? He was adjunct so it was _one_ of the two but Stan always attempted not to make assumptions without certain proof), but he'd pulled a double at the bar last night because fucking _Firkle_ hadn't showed up, _again,_ and had to stay until closing, and by the time he got home, he couldn't fall asleep because he'd had three vodka redbulls over the course of the night to try and make it through said double shift. So, he'd spent the night familiarizing himself with the shit he was gonna be dealing with that semester.

It was weird that, even though he used it every day, he'd actually forgotten a lot of the _fundamentals of mechanical engineering._   
  
Deciding that his freshly-shaved face and wearing glasses instead of the contacts for which he normally opted, and making at least an attempt at fluffing up his hair so it didn't look so fucking _flat_ was good enough to hide the exhaustion, he decided, well, fuck it. It was just a change of clothes and a short car ride to campus, and it was like muscle memory to step into the distinctive-smelling science building, a mixture of chemicals and something that always reminded Stan of burnt popcorn, and down the sterile, sparsely-decorated hall to the corner office.   
  
Until this day, Stan had never paid much attention to this office, or who might be behind the door. Scowling at his exhausted reflection in the glass pane of the door, a set of white blinds blocking his view of the interior, Stan took a deep breath, and knocked.

It was moments like these that Craig hated. Which wasn't to say he liked a lot of things, but he certainly hated the moments when there was a lot to do and not enough time to do any of it. The moment he tried to do anything, he knew that inevitable knock on his office door would come. That sort of interruption was worse than sitting here doing nothing at all.  
  
It just felt like an _eternity_ . When that knock finally came, Craig pushed his chair back from his desk, stretching his legs before crossing his ankle over his opposing knee. He could've just gotten to his feet and answered the door, but what was the point? Surely it was Stan on the other side of the door, and _he_ was certainly capable of opening it.   
  
"Come in." Once Stan opened his office door and stepped in, Craig glanced him over. He looked like a walking disaster, which was verification enough that this was the grad student who was to be working under him. "You must be Marsh. Have a seat. I've already been waiting for you for far too long and I don't have all day."

Mister-Doctor-Professor Craig Tucker looked... normal. Normal, and _young,_ save for the smallest hint of grey hair flecked upon the sides of his temples and the reading glasses sitting atop his head, clad in a boring polo and boring jeans like any other boring engineer. His office smelled like coffee, and Stan's mouth practically watered at the sight of a freshly-brewed pot sitting on a small table against the wall. Not because he _liked_ coffee, he actually thought it was pretty fucking disgusting unless it was accompanied by enough cream and sugar to mask the taste, but because he was just so _tired,_ tired enough that he forgot to brew himself some coffee that morning in a futile effort to make himself _less_ tired.   
  
But, what the hell was he talking about, waiting too long? He _told_ Stan to be there at eleven, and it was literally eleven-oh-one which meant he was there on the dot.   
  
"Stan Marsh," he said, taking a seat upon the straight-backed, wooden chair adjacent from Craig. Like the rest of his methodically-organized office, the seat was uncomfortable, and the very opposite of hospitable. "It's great to meet you."

Craig grunted in response, haphazardly dropping his reading glasses onto his desk so he could brush a hand back through his short hair. "I didn't schedule our meeting to engage in smalltalk," he said, getting to his feet with ease to head to the pot of coffee. It was a normal five-cup variety, and the entire pot fit perfectly in favorite oversized mug: a white mug with black stars and planets, and a green bug-eyed alien holding up both middle fingers. At the bottom of the mug, it read: _I'M OUTTA HERE_ .   
  
It illustrated his mood perfectly, because that was exactly how he'd react if Stan decided to follow that bullshit line of false pleasantries. It wasn't _great_ to meet anyone. It was just meeting someone and he didn't have time to pussyfoot around anything.   
  
"I'd like to discuss your responsibilities for this upcoming semester. Did you read the syllabus I sent?"

Well, that was just fucking peachy. There went the small dash of hope Stan held that Craig might offer him some coffee, and the guy was _already_ a dick. _Way to play into the stereotype that engineers have no social skills,_ thought Stan and, a second later, frantically tried to dredge up the information that was presented to him in the syllabus he received in an email a few weeks ago.   
  
"Yes, I looked it, um, looked it over and." Of course. Of course _now_ would be the moment that Stan's brain decided to just... _short circuit._ He was going to fucking kill Firkle for putting him through that shit at the bar last night. If he hadn't had to stay, he wouldn't look like a complete and utter moron in front of someone he _had_ to impress, for his _degree_ and for _money._ Shit.   
  
He ran a hand through his hair, nervously huffing to try and collect himself. "Yes. I did read the syllabus. I tried-- um, I _revisited_ the material I learned in my fundamentals class, but as you know, that was a while back. I'm curious to see how the curriculum has changed."   
  
Stan couldn't _help_ but make small talk. It wasn't really in him to just sit around like a robot; no matter how much he enjoyed working with automated systems, _he_ was still a person.

He took a long, much-needed sip of his coffee. It was strong and bitter, giving him that jolt of alertness that he needed to keep functioning. If he was lucky, it would give him the patience to get through this meeting with Stan who just looked like he was _dying_ to talk about whatever thought came to mind.   
  
Settling back down at his desk, he leaned against it, palm digging into the side of his cheek as he studied Stan. He was going to be having words with someone if he got slotted with an inept helper. First impressions went a long way, and already Craig was lacking in confidence in Stan's ability to be useful.   
  
"If you actually read the syllabus that should be obvious." It was clear to him that Stan actually _hadn't_ read it. But he just didn't have the _time_ to explain such basic things to him. Instead, he pushed two books that were resting on his desk toward Stan. One of them was a standard, generic textbook. But the other? It had his name on the bottom in bolded letters.   
  
"These are the textbooks for the course. Familiarize yourself with them so you can adequately grade quizzes, exams, and other assignments. You'll also be responsible for keeping an accurate record of attendance and participation."

Oh. Of _course._ Stan should have figured that the kind of man to make such a _stellar_ , such a warm and _inviting_ first impression was the exact same type of person who would make his students purchase his own textbook. _What Is Engineering? -- Dr. Craig T. Tucker._ That definitely answered Stan’s questions as to what to call the guy. Unless he _wanted_ to be called by his first name, which, they were practically equals, Stan could _totally_ call him Craig if he wanted to, _probably_ , and if he couldn’t, he was going to anyway. Just… _maybe_ not to his face.   
  
Now, they say not to judge a book by its cover, but _damn,_ Stan could tell right off the bat that it was dry and boring, just like the man himself. It was a thin volume; instead of a variation of the close-up photo of engine parts that seemed to be on every ME101 textbook in the history of ever (including the other, thicker hardback textbook that Craig -- _Doctor_ Tucker -- slid over to him), the cover was stark black with white block letters, and some swirly-blue border. It looked like it was printed in someone’s house, or something, but the thing probably cost, like, seventy fucking dollars. Stan was more than thankful that this dude wasn’t making him _purchase_ these himself.

Little graces. Little ways to save money. Everything counted, everything added up.

“Oh, hey, cool,” Stan said, his voice nowhere near matching the enthusiasm of his words, “That’s you. Your book.”

Craig quirked a brow at Stan. Really, this guy was too much. Maybe if Craig were less irritable, perhaps if his new teaching assistant weren't trying so hard it, Stan wouldn't be pushing on Craig's last nerve but he doubted that. What was Stan trying to prove now? That he could _read_?

"So it is." He sighed, drinking more off of his coffee. "I recommend keeping a spreadsheet of attendance and denote absences, tardies, and instances of students screwing around instead of paying attention. At the end of the semester, we will assess the attendance record to determine their participation grades." At this point he was prattling on with the information he needed Stan to know, because if he didn't he was sure Stan was going to ask something _stupid_ , like 'what is your book about?'

"Grades get input through the school's eLearning site. If you don't already have access to the course with your credentials, you'll have to contact IT."

“Sure. I’ve got access, they actually emailed me last night.”

Stan’s eyebrows knit in slight, amused surprise that Dr. Tucker hadn’t ran with the opportunity to stroke his own ego about his book. Stan was no stranger to those types. His senior year of undergrad forced him to rub elbows with stuffy, self-important alumni and professors at banquet dinners, Stan finding himself willing to do just about anything for a decent recommendation, even feign interest as some guy named either Rakesh or Rahul talked his ear off about his research contributed to the latest model of eco-friendly refrigerators that were being advertised on television basically every other commercial these days. Then, at a fraternity event, being cornered from this guy named Dave, or Daniel, or Dennis, who had graduated seven years ago, absolutely loved the sound of his own voice, and wanted to tell Stan _all_ about being published in _three_ quarterlies.

But, in the end, it got him _here,_ so complaining, at this point, would have been moot.

“Spreadsheet, yes,” he said, trying, and _probably_ failing to sound as all-business as the vaguely annoyed-looking man across from him. “Absolutely. I’m on it.”

A couple moments of silence passed, nothing but the tick of the clock on the wall and the creak of Stan’s chair as he shifted, uncomfortably.

Stan wasn’t one for awkward silences. “I read your thesis, from when you were, well, where I am now. Not exactly my field, but it was pretty, um.” _Don’t say good,_ his mind screamed at him, _Say fascinating, or insightful, or anything,_ anything _other than--_ “It was pretty good.”

Stan grimaced. _Shit._

Craig’s social skills weren’t exactly up to snuff, which was likely more than obvious at this point. Normally, this meant others were more than willing to work through whatever business they had with him and be done with it. This lingering around to chit-chat about stuff that didn’t matter wasn’t something that he was used to. And it was annoying.

He wasn’t sure what to make of Stan going out of his way to read this thesis. It wasn’t hard to obtain; per his graduation requirements all those years ago, his university published it. But why the hell was Stan looking _that_ up instead of bothering to convincingly sound like he read the syllabus? He just didn’t get it. Trying to win him over by being a sycophant wasn’t going to get Stan any favors.  “Your opinion of it certainly goes a long way with it not being in your field.”

He paused for a moment before continuing. “Do you have any questions regarding the what’s expected of you? If not, you can leave. Let our office administrator know when you’ll be holding your office hours. There’s a shared space for teaching assistants down the hall.”

“Yeah, um, I’m prepared to grade and, you know, review and stuff. But I do have one question, I guess.” Stan was kicking himself internally for his lack of sleep, the exhaustion causing him to be so inarticulate and _awkward_ around someone who seemed to be so esteemed and sure. Either _that,_ or Craig was just a walking stereotype of their field, a socially inept, egotistical douchebag. Stan had a hunch, though, that it might be a little bit of both. “Just wondering, am I responsible for picking up any lectures in the event that you should have to cancel class?”

Stan had to admit that, when he was granted his Teaching Assistant funding, he accepted with reluctance, because _actually_ getting up and teaching in a lecture hall was probably the most daunting thing he could ever imagine. But he really needed the money and, if he played his cards right, this whole thing could turn out to be a great learning experience, not to mention all of the mandatory networking that came along with helping out a professor.

With this guy, though, he figured he was fucked five ways til Sunday already.

It was a fair question to ask, but it was almost comical that Stan asked at all. Craig was judging him too hardly, perhaps, but with what he’d managed to assess from the other man, Craig was certain that he would actually break if he had to step up to the podium. Was that an unfair assumption? Probably. But Craig wasn’t a particularly nice person.

“If you’d like the practice I can allow it, but it’s unnecessary. If I’m unable to make a lecture, I’ll either have you put on a documentary or it’ll be cancelled entirely. I doubt there’d be any complaints.” He knew the student body well enough to know most would rejoice at not having to go to class. Which would happen sooner or later, inevitably, given how divided his time.

Speaking of-- “My office hours are listed in the syllabus. If you need to meet with me at any other point, you’ll need to schedule something with me in advance. I’m not on campus every day.”

 _Oh, thank god._ It wasn’t that Stan was a poor public speaker. In defending his undergraduate thesis, among all of the other presentations he was assigned during those four years of college, he’d actually done quite well. But, it was different. Teaching would mean that other people were dependent on you to provide them the necessary information, and what if, somehow, he fucked it up?

Deep down, Stan was well aware that he knew the subject like the back of his hand. But, the gnawing anxiety of _fucking up_ was ever-present at the back of his mind. His schedule hardly helped matters. If it wasn’t work, it was class, or his _other_ job, or _this,_ or assignments, or getting goddamn Cartman to stop eating all of Stan’s leftovers that he could barely afford in the first place.

“Awesome.” His voice came out breathy, the relief almost tangible. “So, uh, yeah.”

The clock ticked. Dr. Tucker stared, unimpressed.

“So. Yeah. I don’t have any further questions. It’s been a…” Stan couldn’t help but cock his eyebrow, deciding, right then, that if Dr. Craig Tucker was going to be an asshole, _two_ could play at that game. “It has been an absolute _delight_ ,” he said, sarcasm evident. “Guess I’ll see you Tuesday, then.”

Stan’s relief was palpable, and Craig decided he’d not comment about it. Really, he wasn’t so far removed from his experiences as a grad student and a post-grad that he didn’t remember what it was like. His own opinion of Stan aside, grad school was rough, and Craig wasn’t *that* much of an asshole to flounce everything on him. It would’ve been nice to do, given that he still had other courses to teach and grade for too, but it would’ve been cruel even for him.

“Good to know that we’re in agreement,” he said dryly, turning his attention to his computer. “I’m sure this hasn’t been a complete waste of time. You can see yourself out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will come as we get stuff written. In the meantime, you can catch us on tumblr: [rachhell's](https://super-craig-is-gay.tumblr.com/) & [mine](https://thaumatroping.tumblr.com/)


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